prologue
. . .
Will
June
Brooklyn
Public service announcement: I don’t want to be a pro hockey player anymore.
Scrubbing one sweaty palm across my jaw, I brace an elbow on my knee and try to act like this hasn’t turned into the complete shit show Dad feared it would.
The Seattle Rogues.
The NHL’s most recent expansion team, who finished at the bottom of the league last season, just selected me in the draft.
I mean, there was never any doubt that my name was going to be announced as the first-round pick, but why, after years of the worst team in the league missing out on their first choice, did the lottery that was the draft have to screw me over?
The Seattle fucking Rogues.
I’d rather cut off my balls, toss them in a deep fryer, and offer them as entrées to the people sitting in this room.
And that’s the worst of it. Some of those present might as well eat my hairy ball sack. They pretty much own the rest of me.
“I fucking knew it.” Emmett Richards, assistant coach for the Rogues, stands from where he was sitting on the couch opposite me and walks the few paces in my direction, hand outstretched for me to take. Behind his black-framed glasses, his eyes crinkle with the kind of grin I struggle to return.
“On your feet, son,” my dad—Jensen Jones, former Seattle Scorpions goalie—turns to me and whisper-hisses through his teeth.
I rise to my feet and take Emmett’s hand, and a round of applause echoes around my parents’ large living room as the TV glows above the fireplace.
The former New York Blades defenseman rests his other palm on my right shoulder, squeezing his fingers gently. “Fate had a hand in tonight, I’m telling you. The Rogues need a generational talent like you, Will. And by the time you join us after a few years in college, I know you’ll be proud to wear the green-and-gold jersey.”
He clears his throat, and my dad stands, too, offering his hand for Emmett to take. Emmett continues speaking as he releases my hand and shakes Dad’s.
“Over the past ten years, Seattle has grown into a hockey epicenter, and I know when you finally sign with us, the Rogues will be an absolute force. Maybe even bigger than the Seattle Scorpions.” He sounds like he’s convincing himself at this point.
Of all the expansion proposals put to the league, a second team in Seattle was not one hockey fans were predicting.
I guess that’s what happens when huge corporations with more money than sense—over three billion dollars in the bank, to be precise—swoop in and make an offer that’s too hard to refuse. Sure, hockey in Seattle is big these days, but the same could be argued with places like Toronto.
Who didn’t get the goddamn first-round pick.
Dad quirks an unsure brow, dropping his hand from Emmett’s and sliding both into the pockets of his black dress pants. “You’re going to have to forgive me here, Emmett, but I don’t see it. This next season will be the Rogues’ third, and we both know it takes years for a team to gain any kind of traction in the league. Even with a fancy arena and the fan base to fill it.”
Tension-filled silence falls between the two guys who once played against each other on the ice, although it feels more like a rivalry has formed tonight.
My family is hockey crazy. My mom, Kate, and my twin sister, June, are both Seattle Scorpions fans through and through. My dad is an NHL Hall of Famer, having helped lead the Scorpions to three Cup victories, and is the goalie coach for the New York Blades. He had me and June skating before we could walk.
I had dreams of playing pro for one of the prestigious teams.
But in four years, I’ll sign a contract and join the team no true hockey fan wants to acknowledge. Twenty-three players who celebrate a regular season win like they just won the Cup. It’s fucking embarrassing.
“Well, this is … awkward,” Mom declares as she walks into the living room and kisses me on the left cheek. “Congratulations, honey.” Her eyes flick to Emmett’s and then Dad’s. “I know the Rogues weren’t your first choice, but?—”
“Last fucking choice,” Dad interjects, earning a stern glare from Mom.
She smiles at Emmett while he scratches at the back of his neck.
